As Lena stared at the marquee lit up with his name, her breath caught in her throat. It had been almost three full years since she’d last seen Julian Oliver.
Her roommate Marcy wrinkled her pert nose. “I still can’t believe you know Julian Oliver. You’ve been holding out on me, Lena Abdallat.”
Lena brushed off Marcy’s comment and kept staring at the marquee. Just seeing his name felt like seeing a phantom—one she thought she’d previously exorcised—and she wasn’t sure she would be able to handle being in his physical presence. It would be like seeing a zombie. She shivered and pulled her jean jacket closer.
“Seriously. How could you keep a secret like that?” Marcy flipped her platinum-blond hair, cut in a series of choppy layers designed to make her already prominent cheekbones even more prominent.
Lena shrugged. She thought of all the projects she’d completed over the last two years—sculptures filled with longing and collages of regret. Ones that she’d shown repeatedly in workshop. Ones that Marcy had critiqued. I did tell you, Lena thought. Over and over again.
“Lennie?” Marcy prompted. Lena had moved to New York and had become Lennie thanks to Marcy.
Lena owed many thanks to the universe for connecting her with Marcy Barrows of Long Island. Marcy was an acrylic painter who was the youngest daughter of one of Manhattan’s most sought-after divorce lawyers. She’d grown up in the city and was as New York as Lena was not.
There was a long line in front of the venue. Young people dressed from head to toe in faded denim, plaid shirts, and clunky boots. Wild animal prints and flowing skirts. Lena and Marcy breezed past the line as Julian had told her to do. The two of them looked mildly out of place, Marcy in her designer wrap dress and chandelier earrings, Lena in her black tunic and black leggings, the uniform she had adopted since moving to the city. She was wearing the charm bracelet Julian had found at a thrift store in Oak Falls and given to her on New Year’s. It was supposed to have been a promise of their future together, the future that came crashing down a few months later.
As Marcy and Lena shoved through the line, some people shouted at them. Lena ignored the shouts; Marcy fearlessly flashed them the finger. “Oh, fuck off,” Marcy said to one guy with a nose piercing. When they reached the front of the line, a large man stood with his arms crossed.
“There’s a line, you know.”
“Yes,” Lena said hesitantly. She no longer struggled with English, but when someone was confrontational she went back to feeling like the nervous girl struggling to communicate with the customs officer when she’d first landed in America five years ago.
“So why aren’t you in it?”
“Because we’re on the list, dummy,” Marcy said, peering over Lena’s shoulder. “Julian Oliver put us on the list.”
The man looked skeptical. “What’s your name?”
“Marcy Barrows.”
“Lena Abdallat,” Lena interjected. “It should be there. My name.” She knew she sounded confused, but that’s because she was confused. Not necessarily about what was happening—but about how she was supposed to feel.
What would she say to him? Was it a mistake to have come? What would it be like to see him onstage singing those songs—those songs that she thought of as so personal—those songs that were almost certainly all about her—for the whole world to hear? Her posture stiffened as she watched the security guard check his list.
“Well, hell. Surprise, surprise. Here you are. Lena Abdallat and guest.”
Marcy raised her hand playfully. “That would be me. Guest.”
The security guard handed Lena and Marcy necklaces adorned with plastic badges that read in big block letters: BACKSTAGE PASS. As Lena slipped hers over her thin neck, the security guard eyed her warily. “Have fun,” he said, but it sounded more like “good luck” to her ears.
Marcy grabbed Lena’s hand and pulled her inside the venue. It was an old ballroom. It reeked of marijuana and sweat. The lights were turned down low and it was mostly empty since they hadn’t started to let the general public in yet.
Marcy leaned into Lena. “Are you nervous? You seem nervous.”
“No,” Lena lied. “I’m only worried it’ll be strange since I haven’t seen him in a long time.” Lena hadn’t been particularly forthcoming to Marcy about her relationship with Julian Oliver. Even when a poster of Julian’s face landed in Times Square, Lena had kept her past secret from Marcy. She certainly hadn’t explained that she’d heard seven of the nine tracks on Julian’s now-famous album, Winter in Indiana, before the album was released. That he’d played her those songs on his acoustic guitar while they snuggled in his tiny apartment as gray snow had slowly blanketed the frozen ground outside. That each and every one of those songs was about her.
Or at least she’d thought those songs had been about her. Were about her. She felt dizzy, standing in the foyer of the cavernous decaying ballroom. The sheer size of it shocked her. He was going to fill this room? And the current emptiness of it made her feel sick with nerves.
Outside it was only a slightly chilly spring day, but she was suddenly unbearably cold. She was about to turn on her heel, head back to her apartment, crawl under the sheets, and read a book (she’d recently been making her way through the Western canon and had developed a particular penchant for Jane Austen’s novels—she was presently reading Mansfield Park), when she saw him.
He was standing on the stage looking out at her. He moved toward her and Marcy. In the shadows of the hollowed-out room, it was hard to read his face. He hopped off the stage and continued to walk toward her. His pace became quicker the closer he got to her. She held her breath, almost convinced he was going to run past her.
But then, before she could really process what was happening, he’d lifted her off the floor. He twirled her and then set her back on her feet. “You came!” he said, the joy in his voice palpable. “You really came!”
She swallowed and simply nodded because she didn’t trust her own voice.
“And look at you,” he said, his eyes hungrily taking in her all-black ensemble. “You look so New York.”
“That’s taken a bit of work,” Marcy said, stepping out in front of Lena and extending her hand in Julian’s direction. “I’m Marcy Barrows. I believe we have a mutual friend.”
That was so like Marcy. Lena loved her dearly and was grateful to her for all her help, but sometimes, Lena felt like Marcy viewed her as a project—her “immigrant friend.” Sometimes their relationship was a little too White Man’s Burden for Lena’s liking, but she knew Marcy meant well.